"Women are all the same," the murderer was thinking, while dragging Relena into a compartment.

A sorceress (the murderer never did anything without first seeking the advice of cards) predicted that with this mission he, Vestigo Inani, would become part of History. A solemn part, it seemed,
and lasting.

Relena purposefully looked out of the window. The valley, green and cultivated, sowed, and in parts covered with trees, extended for tens of kilometers without interruption by a hill or a rough, stony mountain. Thick clouds of industrial black (most beautiful) appeared suddenly, diving like eagles on the lazy flowing water. In those areas the air smelled of iron filings, and burnt motor oil, and anhydride mixed with anhydride (a vibrant song in the middle of that defined form muddily drowning in the sky).

- That vial contains a message -
- Relena started saying -

You can't destroy it. -

Who wants to destroy it? -
- said Vestigo Inani -

I don't even know what it contains, that vial.

Vestigo Inani twisted his lips again. His experience taught him that, generally, pain takes away the desire to lie. Dozens of heroes bartered torture with death, because no secret is worth a torn fingernail. Maybe the heart, the heart only, could be worth a secret. The heart and all the rest with it. However, by habit, he was never willing to believe before the third assurance.
Because he was aware that in this world stubborn people exist. People who always hope in the last instant. People who expect the world to change suddenly. Ferocious opportunists, who even believe that ideals stand above money.

For this reason, he let go a second blow against Relena's nose.
Not a merciless punch, like the one before, but a short punch, almost friendly.

A last word of warning.

About the Artist